The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (5 page)

Watery lights coming from the surrounding houses illuminated the boys’ faces as Mariko began playing another piece. Hiroshi turned
toward him with eagerness, and Kenji stood still, his eyes widening with interest.

“Tell us again how a sumo match determined our fates?” Hiroshi asked.

He smiled at his grandsons, memorized their faces with a tender joy. “It is the legend that begins the history of our Japanese civilization, over two thousand years ago,” Yoshio said, taking his time, knowing he had captured their attention once again, even the elusive Kenji.

“Ojiichan
, tell us,” Kenji spoke up, his voice young and eager.

“It is written in the
Kojiki
,” Yoshio continued, “the
Records of Ancient Matters
, our earliest written Japanese history, that it was a sumo match, fought on the shores of Isumo, along the Japan seacoast, that determined the origins of the Japanese people. It was decided that there would be a great wrestling match between Takemikazuchi, a Shinto deity who wrestled for the Yamato clan, and Takeminakata, another deity, and the second son of the ruler of Isumo, over ownership of the land.” He paused and listened for a moment to the garbled voices coming from a radio somewhere. “After a match that shook the earth to its very core, it was Takemikazuchi who finally won, and it is said that our imperial family can trace its ancestors back to him. There’s a shrine that marks the place of the first sumo match in Shimane prefecture.”

Hiroshi and Kenji listened attentively. The sharp, stinging cold didn’t seem to deter their curiosity. Mariko’s music provided a spirited accompaniment.

“But what if Takeminakata had won?” Hiroshi asked. “Would everything have been different?”

“I suppose so,” he answered. “As much as each of us would see and do things differently.”

“Can we visit the shrine one day?” Kenji asked.

“Of course.” Yoshio smiled at the rare request from Kenji. “Can you imagine,” he continued, “that our fate was determined by just the two gods?” He shook his head and sucked hard on his pipe. “If only the outcome of wars could be so easily determined now,” he added.

“Why can’t they be?” Hiroshi asked. “Why can’t we have a great
match between two men now to determine the winner of this war? Like with the grand champion Yokozuna Futabayama?”

Yes, why not? Yoshio thought. His own memories of the Russian-Japanese war in Mukden, some thirty-five years ago, were reduced to the blood-soaked earth littered with body parts, the now faded cries of men, the easy madness of pulling a trigger that could end a life, and the death of his older brother, Toshiro. And though Yoshio had been told he was fighting for his country, he really fought only to survive, to return to Fumiko, who was waiting for him. Yet he could never reconcile that he had returned home unscathed, while Toshiro and so many others perished. He had suffered only a terrible bout of dysentery and a badly dislocated shoulder—the shoulder still a silent reminder that pulsated with a dull ache when the weather changed.

In the end, Yoshio knew that what wars really destroyed were families. His parents had never gotten over the loss of Toshiro in Mukden. And for what? Were all the lost lives worth a faraway port? A piece of land? Sometimes, in his dreams, Toshiro still came to him, as young and vital as the day they stepped onto the train together to leave for Tokyo. Their parents, and Fumiko, along with so many others, stood on the platform in the shimmering heat, waving frantically at bodies half-hanging out of open windows of the train, Toshiro’s included. Yoshio had stepped back to let his brother get a clearer view of their vanishing parents. He didn’t know it would be Toshiro’s last. Two days later, they boarded the boat and sailed across the waters to a foreign land, whence so many would never return.

Yoshio swallowed his sorrow.

“It can’t be, Hiro-chan, because great powers always want more,” he answered. “Unlike the gods, mankind may never be able to settle on just two men and just one conquest.”

The boys nodded. Yoshio knew Fumiko would be calling them in at any moment.

“I’d fight,” Hiroshi added.

“Me, too,” Kenji echoed, less certain.

Yoshio didn’t doubt Hiroshi’s idealism, nor that he would fight for Japan. Single-handedly. He was happy that his grandsons were
too young to go to war. Not that he didn’t love Japan and wasn’t loyal to the emperor. He was just so weary of war, knowing that whoever won, too many lives would be lost. Yoshio put an arm around each of his grandsons. “Let’s hope it never has to be.”

But more and more, the war news screamed from the radio, how this war was
seisen
, a sacred war led by the divine emperor. Yoshio worried about what the conflict would lead to, and how it would affect his grandsons if it were to rage on for years. He was never quite happy to hear the broadcasts that boasted of the Japanese army’s successes, of their advancing troops spreading through China, where victories came fast and furious—the capture of Nanking, then Shanghai, then Canton. And what next, the Imperial Army’s push toward Hong Kong, then Singapore, the Philippines—faraway places that had nothing to do with their lives? More often than not, Yoshio snapped off the radio when a report came on.

Now, when he looked at his grandsons, he saw his gentle daughter, Misako, his son-in-law, Kazuo, and even Toshiro. He saw past and future before him in the fading light. And just as abruptly as Mariko’s music had started, it suddenly stopped. “Just remember,” Yoshio said quietly to them. “Every day of your lives, you must always be sure what you’re fighting for.”

The icy winds threatened snow but it didn’t fall that night. A few days later, Kenji hurried down the alleyway, clutching his left side, which ached with every cold breath. His jacket had been torn in the scuffle and his sleeve was stained where he had wiped the blood from his nose. His cheek throbbed beneath his right eye. He needed to stop, to rest for a moment and gather his strength before returning home to face his grandparents’ concern and questions. He knew Hiroshi was still at practice and wouldn’t be home until much later.

Leaning against the side of a building, Kenji closed his eyes until his breathing slowed and his dizziness passed. Underneath his torn
jacket, a spreading bruise felt tender where he had been kicked. Kenji couldn’t believe what had just happened. The first rush forward and wild swings belonged to him, but he wasn’t certain he had hit anyone. He opened and closed his right fist, a swelling and soreness around his knuckles proof that he’d made contact with something. The thought brought tears to his eyes, from happiness or sadness, he wasn’t sure. After the name-calling and laughter, the rest was a blur, a barrage of hands and legs coming at him as he instinctively dropped to the ground and covered his head, rolling himself into what he imagined was a protective shell.

It was Hiroshi he thought of as he was being beaten, how disappointed he would be to know that Kenji had cowered on the ground like a
bebi
. But Kenji would always be the baby brother, and though he never said the words aloud, he loved Hiroshi for his innate strength, the lightness of his step, the way he always watched out for him when other children sensed his distant, tenuous nature. Growing up, he often heard his classmates chant “Kenji the ghost,” as they surrounded him in the schoolyard before and after school:

Their chanting stopped abruptly every time a teacher or Hiroshi came within hearing distance. Kenji would look at his older brother, standing there with his friends Takeo and Mako, feeling the tears push against his eyes, torn at that moment between running to Hiroshi and standing his ground. Not a word passed between them. The chanting echoed through his head, but the children had already scattered. He wished he were really Kenji the ghost, so he could simply disappear from sight.

Kenji took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and pushed away from the wall. The mask shop was just down the street. He hadn’t stopped by in weeks and felt a twinge of nervousness now as he looked around. He didn’t want anyone, especially the actors who came and went from the store, to see him like this, beaten and bloody. For almost two years, Kenji had gazed upon all the different masks displayed in the front window, never daring to enter the shop. Each time, he seemed to discover something more intricate and exciting in the carved features, the delicate paints, the gold dusting, the inlaid eyes, and teeth of brass. He read everything he could find concerning the Noh theater. Intrigued with the importance of the masks, Kenji learned that each subtle move of the actor’s head and body projected a different emotion from the mask he wore. Kenji relished the idea that a piece of wood could be perceived as a living thing.

When he felt a hand on his shoulder, Kenji turned quickly and a pain shot through his ribs, as if he were being kicked all over again. Wincing, he looked up to see Akira Yoshiwara watching him, and not unkindly. Kenji wanted to run, wanted to die at the thought of his disgraceful appearance in front of the master artisan. He stumbled sideways but the hand only grasped his arm more tightly. Was this a dream? Without a word, Akira Yoshiwara slipped his arm under Kenji’s, and holding him up, guided him down the street to his shop. Kenji was dizzy with the thought of finally entering the shop, but not as he had imagined so many times before. In his mind, he had often walked through the door with a great flourish. He never guessed his first steps into the tiny shop would be with the assistance of the master artisan, and in such dishonor.

Akira Yoshiwara unlocked the door. “Perhaps you’d like to come in and see the masks up close for a change?” he asked, his voice soft and teasing.

“You’ve seen me?” Kenji licked his lips, tasted the saltiness of blood and mucus, and wished for a sip of water.

“Once or twice. I take it you like the masks?”

“Very much,” Kenji said.

Standing close, Akira Yoshiwara smiled for the first time, which made him look younger, somewhere in his thirties. Without the layer
of wood dust dulling his skin and hair, and dressed in a dark blue cotton
yukata
with a white lotus pattern, he looked like a different person. His dark, long hair fell over his slight shoulders and his closely trimmed beard gave him a defiant yet distinguished look.

Inside, Kenji breathed in the sharp and biting smell of paint, and the more subtle scent of cypress wood, which his
ojiichan
sometimes carved. As the sun broke through the clouds, it filled the room with white light. Kenji saw that everything was covered with a fine powdery dust.

“Sit right here.” Akira Yoshiwara helped him onto one of the low wooden chairs.

“Domo arigato gozaimasu.”
Kenji tried to bow low but grabbed his side in pain instead. “I should go home.”

“Just sit,” he said again, placing his hands firmly on his shoulders. “Let me help you first.”

Akira Yoshiwara whistled as he disappeared into the back room. Kenji looked around to see there were no masks on the tall shelf against the wall. The room appeared desolate and bare, and in need of a good cleaning. It felt strange being on the inside of the window, looking out, as if he had stepped into another world and wasn’t sure which was the lonelier. He ran a finger through the dust on the table and wrote his name in quick characters. He heard cabinets opening and closing in the other room, water being poured, and Yoshiwara’s calm voice telling someone not to touch something. Kenji grew warm and his heart beat faster at the thought that someone else was there.

When Akira Yoshiwara returned, he carried a tray with a wet cloth, a bowl of water, and a clay cup of hot tea. He had tied his long hair back, and his dark eyes watched Kenji as he sipped from the steaming cup. “You don’t appear to be the type of boy who likes to fight.” With slender fingers he dabbed the towel lightly across Kenji’s cheek, under his throbbing eye, wiping the dry blood from under his nose, then rinsed it in the bowl of water and wiped again with such gentleness Kenji wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

“It was an accident,” Kenji said, flushed. “I tripped and fell.” It was what he had rehearsed in his mind to tell his grandparents. He
didn’t dare look up and meet Akira Yoshiwara’s gaze, knowing how hollow his lie sounded. Kenji wanted to say he wasn’t the type to fight, that he didn’t know what had come over him, but he heard something clatter in the back room and instead asked, “Is someone else here?”

Akira Yoshiwara laughed. “Yes, of course.”

Kenji stood up abruptly, almost knocking over the bowl of water.

“Nazo,” Yoshiwara called. “Come out and meet—” He looked down at the characters written on the table. “Matsumoto, Kenji-san.”

In the next moment, a black cat with white paws slipped into the room, tentative as he approached the table, stopping a moment to consider Kenji, then circling around their legs twice before leaping up to the table next to his master. “This is Nazo.” The black cat brushed against Akira Yoshiwara’s arm and arched his back until he was stroked. “As you can see, he’s a very possessive cat.”